


Don't mess with angels

by helena_s_renn, Helenas_bitch



Series: WTF? [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9716168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenas_bitch/pseuds/Helenas_bitch
Summary: Don't mess with angels as they'll certainly mess with you. Especially if you're a Winchester. And pregnant.





	

Dean had a sneaking suspicion, or more like a deep, death knell-like sense of doom, about what was happening to him. As much as he hated the idea of having to look the instigator of it in the face, he wasn't going to wuss out and this time he'd get the truth. Gulping and slowing his breathing to try to control the nausea still churning away in his gut, Dean strode back into the shed. The white flames were all that stopped him from physically attacking the human-looking angel on the other side. "What did you just do?" he demanded, not expecting an answer. 

"I think you already know," Gabriel returned, staring up at him steadily except for one telling glance downward. "Don't you, Dean?"

After a long minute, during which Dean contemplated murdering or perhaps just hurling on the giant douche who so happily fucked with their lives, he finally croaked, "You somehow made me pregnant, too. Why?" His gag reflex triggered and he had to make a few chicken-like movements with his head and neck to keep it down. Dean flushed to the tips of his ears out of embarrassment. Talk about humiliating! And when had the temperature risen so much? He was sweating through his shirts and beads dripped from his temples. 

"Not 'too'. Not both of you at the same time." Gabriel smiled slightly. Not for the first time, Dean reflected that the meatsuit the angel was either wearing or projecting was one strange-looking dude. His jaw was too square, his chin too protruding, uneven nostrils and that ugly mouth with lips like worms. He had nice eyes, but... holy shit, if Dean was waxing poetic about some guy's eyes, he must be absolutely rampant with female hormones. 

But then it hit him, what that meant. If Dean was now carrying the child, Sam would feel the difference in his own body and mistakenly think he'd lost the baby. No way was he going to let that happen to Sam all alone. All of sudden, the 'why' of it was no longer important. He turned and ran for Bobby's house. Even that was more difficult than it should have been, his balance off-kilter and something about his hip joints, too creaky. Dean resisted the urge to keep a hand over his belly as he panted harder and harder. Stumbling up the porch steps, he burst through the kitchen door. "Sam...?!?" 

* * *

When Dean ran from the shed, Bobby raised an eyebrow – and congratulated himself for remaining outwardly composed while his mind was running through the possibilities of what Gabriel could have done to Dean. The scariest thought wasn't even _what_ the feathered dick had done, but _how_ he'd done it. Had the holy oil failed? Gabriel just kept smirking.

The smirk increased when Dean returned and demanded to know what the hell was happening. Then Gabriel confirmed Dean's suspicion, and Bobby's eyebrows rose again, probably higher than his already high hairline. Dean ran, most likely to find Sam, and Bobby fought to rein in the urge to shank the trickster. The little fucker sure had an angel blade coming, but right now they still needed him: the situation hadn't exactly changed by switching the pregnancy to the other brother.

"I'll go now, have that drink after all," Bobby announced, hoping to sound calm but fuming again when the angel laughed and made a dismissive gesture. Promising to himself to wipe that smirk off Gabriel's face once and for all as soon as they'd resolved their current 'problem', Bobby slowly followed Dean back to the house.

* * *

After Dean had left to summon the trickster-slash-archangel, Sam had been sure he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again until his brother returned. Now that he heard the ruckus downstairs, he was astonished that he had slept despite the danger Dean was in. However, the thought took the back seat in his brain: the noises emanating from the kitchen sounded like Dean, which meant that something was wrong.

With a sigh, Sam got up from the bed, mindful of his sore back and avoiding sudden movements so as not to cause another wave of nausea. The latter had tamped down to almost nothing, as he noticed with immense relief, and even the back pain wasn't as bad as it had been a short while ago. Charlie's medication along with resting appeared to have done the trick.

He made his way down the steps to the kitchen, where he found his brother. Dean was sweating and panting, swaying on his feet, his eyes wild with an expression Sam had never seen on his face before.

"Dean, what the hell happened? And where's Bobby?"

* * *

Seconds after Dean skidded to a halt in the middle of the kitchen, Sam shambled downstairs in jeans and a tee-shirt, having ditched his other layers. As always, the sight of his brother not in any immediate danger sent a frisson of desire to Dean's crotch. A quick assessment told Dean that Sam's color was much better, almost normal; he was moving easier, and tousled hair and pillow creases marking the left side of his face said Sam had slept. How long had Dean and Bobby been out in the shed anyway?

About to start in about what had happened, Dean pulled up short, stomach roiling harder than before. Bobby? Now Sam was more concerned with their host than him? "Right behind me, I'm sure. 'S not like he can't take care of himself," Dean bit out. "So... how're you feeling, Sam? Better?" He tried to keep the fact he himself was far from okay from his tone, but even then he knew that trying to fool Sam was futile. 

That was the moment Dean's digestive system decided to overrule him. Sweat poured from every pore, while Dean frantically eyed his surroundings. He absolutely wasn't puking in the vicinity of food prep. Thanking the powers that be for its existence, Dean ran for the bathroom off the kitchen, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other clutching his belly, and slammed the door behind him. 

It took a long time for the pyrotechnics to end. By then, Dean was shaking, flashing hot and cold, and dry-heaving. He prayed to the porcelain god that this was a one-off, and that either Gabriel had lied – again – or if, gods forbid, he hadn't that Dean wouldn't have the same extreme, never-ending nausea and other symptoms as Sam. When he finally pulled himself to his feet, flushed, rinsed out his mouth and tottered back into the kitchen, Sam was waiting, the kind of look on his face that warned Dean he was going to have to report everything. 

* * *

Instead of answering Sam's question, Dean asked him how he felt, then ran to the bathroom. Sam flinched at the sounds coming from there seconds later, knowing only too well how his brother must feel, if for entirely different reasons. Sam still didn't know whether the attempt at conjuring Gabriel had been successful, but whatever Bobby and Dean had achieved had a side effect that was making his brother puke up his guts. From what Dean had said, Bobby seemed to be okay, so Sam thought about Dean's question while he waited for him to reemerge from the bathroom.

Was he feeling better? Sam took a careful inventory of his body. His back was still sore although it was less painful than before he'd laid down. He sent a mental thank you to Charlie for that. The nausea had subsided completely, but he hadn't felt sick since Charlie had provided medication for that, too. Other than that, Sam felt refreshed. He was more at ease here than at the Roadhouse. Not only did he not have to put up with Jo's insanity, but Bobby's place was the only home he'd ever known. Thus the last hour – or more? He still had no clue as to how long Dean had actually been gone – had been the most restful time he'd had since this whole mess had begun.

Yes, he was definitely feeling better. Something was wrong, though. Sam frowned. Dean had changed, too, during the past days. He'd become attentive and concerned about Sam's wellbeing. No, wait, that wasn't right, he'd always been concerned about Sam but he'd never shown it openly before like he did now. Still, why didn't Dean tell him what was going on instead of asking him if he felt better? Coming to think of it, why hadn't Dean simply asked _how_ he felt? Did the question as to whether he was feeling better contain an implication that he _should_ feel better? 

Dean leaving the bathroom put an end to Sam's musings. "So," he asked pointedly, _"what happened?"_

* * *

The concept of what he had to tell Sam balanced somewhere between far-fetched and pathological insanity. Faced with having to spill his guts – not literally this time – about what had occurred out in Bobby's shed, Dean found himself tongue-tied. He paced from one side of the kitchen to the other, pantry door to worn, chrome-trimmed table and back. No, the borders of the ceiling held no answers. 

"Well, you know..." Sam didn't, that was the problem, and Dean could read his brother well enough to know Sam was getting impatient with him. "The summoning worked. We trapped him in holy fire so he couldn't run or 'poof'. Then we tried to get the how and why of this male pregnancy thing out of him." Now those words really made Dean wince. "Didn't even get to what's in there or how to deal with you... I mean, it. He spouted off a bunch of bull-pucky about the apocalypse, more broken seals, our family tree, I can't even remember it all but he went on and on, ol' Gabe loves to hear himself talk."

Lest he be accused of the same, Dean got down to the not-so-good news. He wondered if the archangel could hear him now, and it wasn't helping things. "But when I called him on it, the asshole pretty much laughed in my face and said..." stopping near the fridge, Dean faced Sam, eyebrows raised, "more or less, he did it because he can, and 'cuz he likes fucking with us. That's fun for him. Fucker!"

Resuming his pacing, Dean ran a hand over his head. The bristles were softer and longer than he usually wore these days. Was that a side effect of—? Shit, he needed to just tell Sam, but how? What if Sam was upset over the... relocation which had happened without his permission or knowledge? That could hardly be pinned on Dean; he certainly hadn't requested to be impregnated. The nausea was starting to rise again. Fast. He had to stop pacing. Once again, he was awash in cold sweat and could almost feel his complexion turning green. Worse than the thought of puking again was the fact he had nothing left. "Dammit! Do you have any of those pills left, Sam?" 

* * *

Of course, he didn't get an answer. Dean obviously had acquired some sort of problem and wouldn't talk about it. So _that_ had definitely not changed. Neither had Sam's irritability changed, at least not for the better. Then again, Dean really looked sick, so Sam forced himself to remain calm.

"I do. I'll go fetch them. And then I wouldn't mind if you told me _what the hell is going on."_ He ground his teeth and hurried upstairs. Thank goodness, Charlie had provided a generous supply of the anti-nausea pills. Sam grabbed the whole bag with the medications – who knew what else Dean may need; Sam for sure had no clue since his brother wasn't talking to him.

When he returned to the kitchen, he felt a little less annoyed. Dean was sitting at the table looking like death warmed over. Sam filled a glass with water and handed it to him with a couple of pills. 

"I hope you can keep these down," he said and couldn't suppress a smirk, "because door number two goes up the other end."

* * *

Dean was well-versed enough in emergency medical care to be well aware of what Sam meant by "door number two", as if the assigned numerical value wasn't clue enough. He glared at Sam's departing back, which changed to a pathetically hangdog look of gratitude, he was sure, when Sam produced the pills. Though less than two minutes passed, by then his guts were churning all over again so he couldn't do much more than swallow them with the water his brother had helpfully provided, and try to keep his breathing steady and his gorge down till they took effect. 

It didn't take long. Dean sent silent thanks to the doc and the chemistry which had made a fast-acting formula. On the other hand, now he had to answer to the question of what was going on. Sam wasn't going to let him off the hook any longer. His brother was leaning against the wall now, one shoulder and one hip parked against the wood paneling, arms crossed. To anyone one else, it would look like a casual stance; Dean knew better. From there, Sam could pull a gun or a knife or take down your average man in seconds. He couldn't help but take a moment to admire the prominent veins looping around Sam's arms, the various bulges produced by his position: biceps, pecs pushed together under his worn cotton tee-shirt, crotch. 

When he was able, after another couple sips of water, Dean rasped hoarsely, "Thanks. For bringing the pills, I mean. I'm better now." Better, sure. And now Dean was exhibiting more symptoms like those Sam had: his nasal cavity was infused with Sam's sleep-heavy sweat-and-sugar pheromones that, crazy as it was, made Dean crave waffles. With strawberries and maple syrup and whipped cream. And speaking of cream, why was Dean half-hard and suddenly contemplating bending Sam over this table? 

"So what the hell is going on is... I might be a little bit. Uh." Dean coughed, deliberately. "Well, maybe..." he thought about it, whether what Gabriel had finally ended with could have any wiggle room at all. Nope. Unless it was another lie. The archangel had both royally fucked with them and lied before. "Pregnant." He hid the word in another series of coughs. 

* * *

"Pregnant." Sam could at first but echo Dean's words. Understanding came a moment later. _"Pregnant!_ That son of a...!" Of course, it had gone wrong. Sam mentally kicked himself. Why hadn't he insisted of being present when Bobby and Dean had summoned Gabriel? Why hadn't they considered that the angel would find a way to make their situation even worse? Asshat got off on that, after all, and Sam could almost hear the gleeful voice in his head.

"But how? I mean, he needed us to have sex to make me pregnant, right? So how did you...?" Hit by a sudden and inexplicable bout of jealousy, Sam narrowed his eyes. "It was Jo, wasn't it? While I was puking my way to kingdom come, did you go for a little extra activity?"

* * *

At first, Sam seemed got get it, but then suddenly he cut himself off mid-profanity. His eyes narrowed, his face reddened to near brick-colored, and a vein throbbed in his temple, which was not attractive at all, Dean reflected.

The next words cut into Dean like so many hits to the vulnerable parts of his body. They'd observed jealous husbands, wives, boyfriends and girlfriends when impersonating law enforcement. The resulting mayhem could fall anywhere between mildly harmful and deadly. Witches and warlocks, for example, were all a bunch of jealous bitches in addition to their disgusting hygiene and collections of spell makings. Since he had learned to be always one foot out the door with the ladies, Dean had never been on the receiving end of any possessive rage, not like this. Sam was _pissed_. Moreover, he was accusing Dean of cheating, which was more or less adultery, considering, and getting himself knocked up by another... woman? Dean would never two-time his brother, didn't Sam fucking know that? 

Now he was pissed off, too. Basically, Sam had just called him a whore, and not in a joking around, wink-wink-nudge-nudge manner. It was true that Dean had been a male slut of epic proportions, but that wasn't him anymore. Not since he'd gone gay for Sam, really fucking homo because his brother was hot as hell and sex with him was like none he'd ever had and they loved each other – he thought! Dean's blood pressure rose, pounding in his chest and ears and making it so he could hardly breathe. His fists clenched at his sides. Did Sam think he was just going to stand there and take this bullshit like some browbeaten little housewife? Like he was the guilty sonofabitch here?! 

"What the fucking fuck, Sam?" Dean yelled inanely. "Is that what you think?" They hadn't physically fought, not for real, since before Sam ran away to Stanford, but right then it took everything Dean had not to slug Sam in that smart, sneering mouth. "What, did you actually think I just let her pork me with her girl-peen between bouts of your puke-fest? In case you forgot, Samantha, when it happened before it was like... you were a girl... and Gabriel, he... and now..." Dean had to stop and blow out a lungful of air before he burst his lungs, but he felt a full-fledged rant coming on. "Well, why should I explain it, since you know everything? Nothing new there! That's what I get for being a good brother and getting you to the doc, and saying I love you out loud for Christsakes and being," Dean gulped, "faithful, huh? No wonder I never tried it before, if this is what I get!!" 

* * *

"Well, _excuse me_ for asking," Sam spat. "I must have misread in the past that you were the one screwing around, getting laid whenever we weren't on a job – and sometimes when we were, too. And don't even try to tell me that Jo hasn't been on your radar for ages. I've watched her shoot you down too many times to even count. So why should I not expect you to go for it when she finally lets you? As for you emphasizing that I was a girl when you... did me, so was she, and she still is..."

He was running out of steam. Surprised by his jealousy – something Sam couldn't remember ever feeling before – he wondered if it, too, was caused by his pregnancy: the urge to make sure Dean, the father, was his and only his, at his side to protect their offspring.

Something hit him that Dean had said. "And thank you for _being a good brother._ Maybe I'd rather have a good _boyfriend."_ – Okay, that word sounded really stupid; what were they, thirteen? – "Anyway, that's what I'll try to be for you," Sam resumed. "A good... partner. Whatever. And regardless of who is the father. Or mother."

His lower lip began to tremble dangerously as he ploughed on. "You've been the only person I've been with in ages, so you're the only one who could have fathered my... our... the one that's growing in me. As for yours, it's ours, if you want me to be the dad, regardless of whom you may slept with." He swallowed. "Even if it's Jo."

* * *

"Jo shot me down...? Yeah, whatever. In case you forgot, I was the one shooting _her_ down. In Chicago, in Colorado, at the Roadhouse. The only time I was ready to let her have her turn, her mother up and told her the truth about her father's death." Dean spoke the words, but it was obvious Sam either didn't hear him or didn't believe him on that subject. More-ever, the kid still didn't realize the gravity of the situation. Dean would have rather they were both seated for this, but he also preferred not to get hit in the face, or worse, stomach. 

In the dim kitchen, Bobby's vintage fridge kicking in nearby the only soundtrack, Dean approached his brother a step at a time. His half-stated facts and hints hadn't meshed in Sam's normally flashfire mind – it was obvious he wasn't getting it. For once Dean listened, really listened to Sam's litany of misery and settling for an arrangement few men would put up with. He needed to fix it, needed to help. The words "good brother" from Sam's lips sounded like last place. While Dean couldn't help snorting at the word 'boyfriend' – it sounded so cheesy – Sam went on to call him his partner, which was really what they'd always been anyway, at different levels: in their work, in the hunter life, and now also in love. He had to stop Sam's misconceptions before it got any more out of hand. "You are a good partner, Sam, better than good..." He couldn't keep the heat out of his voice. Dean was just out of his brother's reach right now, just to be safe. "Jo didn't knock me up. Nor vice versa. I didn't turn into a chick, she didn't turn into a dude and we never, and I mean it, Sam," Dean tipped his chin up with a touch of defiance, "ever hooked up." 

Both the facial expression and posture change Sam flung back at Dean screamed confusion. Neither of them could handle any more verbal parrying. With a sigh, Dean patted his belly. "This, in here, is ours – the only one, right here. The trickster's work once again. You know how he likes to play jokes. He decided it would be funny to give me a turn as a human incubator." Yeah, the ultimate joke: Dean Winchester, pregnant. "Be glad for the reprieve, buddy. Cuz besides having to call god on the big white phone a minute ago, my nipples are sore as hell," Dean only just realized how swollen, hot, and over-sensitive they felt as it came out of his mouth. Then he felt like a total idiot for announcing it. 

* * *

Sam sighed. To him, it sounded like a case of memories being rewritten to fit with Dean's self-image. Unfortunately, the only times Sam remembered when Dean had tried to hit on Jo were those where she'd denied him. However, it was also clear that whatever he was going to say on the topic would only lead to more fighting. And what was more important, Dean swore that he'd never hooked up with her. Whatever his brother may do wrong – or maybe not wrong but things Sam couldn't relate to – now and then, Sam knew that Dean wouldn't lie to him. Oh, Dean wouldn't hesitate to mislead Sam during a hunt if he thought it would keep Sam safe, but he wouldn't lie about Jo.

When he opened his mouth to let Dean know that he believed him, however, he never got to say the words. Not sure what Dean meant by 'reprieve', his jaw dropped when Dean admitted to his nipples being sore. The vomiting couldn't be denied, but that Dean actually let his mask of cockiness down and told Sam about his... distress...

Sam swallowed. "Is there anything I can do?"

* * *

Bobby had followed Dean as he ran from the shed. He'd let the angel, trickster, whatever, stew in the holy fire; they might still need him. As he approached the house, he could hear that Sam was up and that a fight was going on. He sighed and wondered for a minute if he could make the two idjits listen to him, then decided against it: if he attempted to mediate, the brothers would likely present a united front and turn on him instead on each other. It might be better for them in the short run, but they needed to get it out of their systems. Maybe, after that, they'd be ready to discuss what to do next. He firmly ignored his brain's whispering of 'make-up sex' and repaired to his workshop for a drink.

* * *

Shrugging, Dean considered what Sam might do to 'help'. The movement caused his tee-shirt to brush against his skin, especially his suddenly-erect nipples which were, he noticed during a furtive downward glance, standing out like two cupboard knobs compared to their usual flat, unobtrusive presence. "Dunno, Sam. Whatever worked for you when you were pregnant. Maybe some of that ointment?" 

That sounded like a very good idea, in fact. Dean unbuttoned his flannel as fast as he could manage, pulled it off one sleeve at a time, then yanked the hem of his tee-shirt up and over his head. All of his clothes felt confining and chafing. If he thought he was going to lounge around in the buff or in his skivvies, he knew he'd have another thing coming. Bobby would toss him and Sam out on their asses. Hunters had to be ready for anything. From some of the stories he'd overheard at the Roadhouse and similar havens, Dean was convinced that the majority of hunters slept in their clothes habitually. He was going to need to do something about that. 

But back to the present. Standing half-naked in front of his much-too-dressed brother tended to jump-start their libidos, but Sam, it seemed, wasn't even checking him out. More like, Sam was blinking with the corners of his mouth turned down and unable to produce much in the way of words. Maybe he was slow to catch on today. Or, since Sam had been attached already, could he be grieving. The child was still alive, just transplanted. Dean should have said that, but instead he drawled, "I suppose we should do this upstairs," while he pondered at Bobby's absence, though the man might very well wander in at any moment. 

* * *

Sam had read somewhere that sometimes, women's brains tended to 'slow down' during pregnancy and early child raising. Apparently, it was evolution's way of making sure that information pertinent for the safety of the child got processed with priority. He couldn't remember where – or why – he'd read it, but that it came to his mind in this very moment kind of proved the point.

He'd listened to Dean in disbelief when his brother not only complained about his painful nipples, but actually asked for help with them. Dean even began to undress – right here in Bobby's kitchen. Just when he was going to suggest that this might not be the best place to get naked and that the ointment was in their bedroom anyway, Dean stopped himself and suggested they'd better head upstairs.

Sam nodded his agreement and picked up Dean's clothes, then followed his brother to the stairs. They were already half-way to their room when something Dean had said earlier suddenly hit him.

"What do you mean, when I _was_ pregnant?!"

* * *

Just as Dean reached the top of the stairs, Sam's voice rolled over him, a dangerous edge in it. Unbelievable. It had taken Sam this long to finally process the message Dean had tried more than once to deliver downstairs. His brother must either be sleep-drunk or his pills contained more than an antiemetic... in which case, Dean could expect to conk out shortly. 

"Was. Past tense of... er, when you were pregnant. Whatever." Fine, Dean sucked at verb conjugations but this wasn't junior high school English class. "So you finally caught on, I take it?" he asked, turning down the hallway, autopilot taking him the rest of the way past the linen closet, bathroom and the door to a tiny former bedroom that was filled with – big surprise – more books. He noticed his two discarded shirts in Sam's fist. They dangled lifelessly by their collars; Dean couldn't help but wonder if, unconsciously, Sam wanted to strangle him for what his brother might perceive as Dean's fault. "Wasn't my idea. I was just trying to get some answers from that friggin' trickster... archangel... and he decided to pull the old switcheroo." 

Sam followed him into their room before speaking. Even so, Dean picked up his labored breathing, not from climbing the stairs but from the shock of the news he'd only just figured out. Or, he was furious. Either way, it wasn't going to be pretty. "Where's the ointment?" 

* * *

He should have stayed inside his repair shop. 

Bobby had taken a few long pulls of the bottle of blue label he had hidden in the depths of his shelves when one of the lights flickered out. Either he needed a new bulb or there was something not human other than that dick of an angel lurking about – which he considered impossible as warded as his place was – but either way he wasn't about to be stumbling around alone in the dark. Outside though, was a clear shot through his kitchen window. He did not want or need the 'teaser trailer' of Dean stripping halfway down right there between the table and the fridge. They were all men, it wasn't that. Dean's torso looked normal enough from a distance. Male, almost completely hairless, stop! Thank god Sam's back, what little he could see of it, was to Bobby, because he didn't want to know if or how much the younger Winchester appreciated the show. 

A minute later, the two of them left the room. From the direction they took, Bobby assumed they had headed upstairs. He grumbled to himself under his breath about the rezza-freckin' hormone-addled idjits not taking all night. The warmth in his gut and slight euphoria from the alcohol told him he was in no shape to be climbing ladders. Maybe he should sleep it off in his truck. It had been one hell of a day. 

* * *

"You..." Sam had opened his mouth to reply but words wouldn't come. Instead, a feeling of acute loss washed over him that made his legs buckle. The baby, their baby – _his_ baby was gone! His diaphragm locked up and he struggled to breathe. Why hadn't Dean told him straight out? And how could Dean ignore him, now that he'd dropped the – second – bomb that not only was Dean pregnant but that Sam wasn't any longer? 

Sam followed Dean into their room although he was still having difficulties catching his breath. He rifled through his bag without saying a word. After finding the ointment, he threw it onto Dean's bed.

"Sorry, but I need a minute to process this." If he stayed right now, he'd probably kill his brother for his insensitivity. "I'll... be back..." 

He should probably talk to Bobby. The older hunter had, or so Sam assumed, witnessed what had happened. Maybe Bobby would be more forthcoming with information than Dean was. Also, if Dean was right that Sam was no longer pregnant, he could really do with a stiff drink before facing his brother again.

"Bobby?" Nobody was in the kitchen, but if he was no longer with child, there was no reason why Sam should stay in the house. He went out and heard a noise coming from Bobby's old truck.

"Bobby?"

* * *

"Alright, Sam but... but... Sammy?!" Once again, Dean was stuttering uselessly in the direction of Sam's back. So much for "talking", which Dean had psyched himself up for in the minutes between his 'discussion' with the downstairs toilet bowl and coming up here. Wasn't that what Sam always wanted from him? To talk it out like a couple of teenaged drama queens about their feelings and all that? No, instead he walked away. Hell, he hadn't even given Dean a chance to commiserate with him, or go over the details. Although, in Dean's opinion, he himself was currently the person getting the shit end of the stick. A nasty combination of anger and hurt, that his brother was more obsessed about his now-over unplanned pregnancy than Dean's well-being. 

Then he heard Sam calling for Bobby. Really? Like he needed third-party confirmation that Dean wasn't lying? Because whatever else he was, no matter how book-smart on any subject, Bobby was not an MD. The alternative, however, was driving back to the Roadhouse for an ultrasound and labs and whatever else the Doc would deem necessary. Hell no! The humiliation of that outcome made Dean queasy in a way that had nothing to do with progesterone. No, they were going to have to figure out some way to get the baby back in Sam. 

But what if Sam didn't want that? Horror filled Dean at the idea of growing into a fat, waddling, gestating, lactating... When it was Sam, it was almost kind of cute. For himself? A bona fide freakshow, that's what it was. There was only one way out, but his brother would probably keep him locked in chains before he 'allowed' it. Well, Dean would just have to keep that plan close his chest. 

* * *

Rooting around in his truck to fix himself a bed if needed, because there was no way Bobby was going to venture back in the house with the Winchesters either fighting or fucking – or both – in there, Bobby thought he heard footsteps on the porch but ignored them. He grumbled under his breath throughout laying out the cold-weather sleeping bag and a rolled-up blanket for a pillow, disgusted more with himself than anything over his thin skin about the boys' latest "issue". Issue. Right. As in, offspring, in that sense. He'd handled demon possession, the knowledge of what Sam had done to Jo, Sam dying, Dean's deal, demon blood detox, but this last was beyond his capacity to cope with in any other way than avoidance. Yet, stupidly perhaps, but someone had to do something besides charge in waving a gun, he'd tried to help with confronting Gabriel... and look how that had turned out. Whether he believed it, well, he needed more concrete proof that it wasn't just more angel games. 

But of course, here came one of the younger hunters, probably to bitch about the other. The voice was Sam's. "What are you doing out of the house, boy?" he asked gruffly. "Told you to stay inside." 

* * *

Sam was about to open his mouth and demand that Bobby tell him exactly what had happened, but before he could say anything, Bobby asked what he was doing outside and reminded him that he was supposed to stay in the house.

Seriously? Sam had possibly just lost his child and needed a minute to put himself together so he could be there for Dean. He remembered very well how he'd felt when it had slowly transpired that he was pregnant. Dean had maybe a very minor advantage over Sam in so far that he was now aware that male pregnancy could happen, if brought on by a conscienceless angel, but Sam doubted that this made it any easier for Dean. 

No, he wanted to be there for his brother, but he really needed a minute. Sam's analytic brain found it easier to handle difficult situations by processing the facts. That's why he'd come to see Bobby, but apparently, the older hunter didn't intend to help.

Which left only one option. Sam walked over to the shed in which Bobby and Dean held Gabriel trapped.

* * *

About ten minutes later, after which Sam had left the garage without a word and Bobby had got himself settled into his nest-slash-bed, he belatedly, very belatedly, recalled that, according to the archangel at least, Sam was no longer pregnant, which negated most of his risk. Balls, Bobby cursed, he must be drunker than he thought as he sank into oblivion. 

* * *

Fine, then! From somewhere Dean usually kept the negative emotions tamped down, far down, he welled over with a combination of rage and hurt that he didn't even know what to do with. All his life, it had been, "take care of Sammy". Now the one time Dean needed someone to take care of him, what happened? He pictured himself screaming in Sam's face, or hitting him, or just trashing the place. No, that wouldn't do, it wasn't worth the exertion, was it? Sam didn't care. Mainly Dean just sat there on the bed, shaking. One of his eyes twitched and tried to expel moisture built up from his deluge of feelings and he swiped at it like the eye had personally offended him. Damned if he'd cry over this! If Sam was going to throw a hissy fit and just walk out on him, then Dean could, too. He could do him one better. Fuck it. This would be over, he'd never touch Sam again, end of story. So what if Sam was the best lay ever? There was more to life than sex – like their jobs, for instance – hadn't this whole misadventure proved it? 

Besides that, the proverbial walls were closing in on him, making it hard for Dean to get enough air in his lungs. Before anything else went to shit, he ran down the stairs, grabbed only his keys, his .45 and a couple of knives on the way out. Baby, in the yard, looked like home and freedom in a sleek, black steel covering; she smelled like old leather and gun oil and _them_ (which Dean tried not to think about too much), her seat was made for his body and her wheel for his hands. And he would drive her.... hard and fast... 

Dean roared out of the yard, spraying dirt, leaves and gravel in his wake as the car tore up the road. He hit sixty before having to turn onto the county road, eighty before he was even conscious of his foot jamming the accelerator to the floorboard. Now what was that doctor's name in Sioux Falls? Dr. Vampire? 

* * *

When Sam entered the shed he was greeted by Gabriel, who wore an expression of utter boredom on his face. Sam could, however, discern the slightest of jitters in the angel's motion as soon as Gabriel addressed him.

"Now what?"

Sam swallowed. "You made Dean pregnant. And me... unpregnant. He doesn't want it. I want it back."

"Maybe you two should have got your stories straight before smothering me with your unresolved issues." Gabriel rolled his eyes. "But let's just assume I return it to you. What's in it for me? Oh, and don't bother threatening to leave me here for a few millennia, give or take. Been there, done that. So what would you have to offer me in return?"

"A chance to see him or her alive. I won't give my child up to you, but I'd promise to not hide it from you once it's born. On the condition that you won't interfere with me, Dean, and him or her in the future."

_"Your_ child wouldn't exist without me. So why would I agree to such terms?" Gabriel sneered.

"Because," Sam swallowed harder, "you know Dean. Can you really see him hiding out, grounded for the next six months?"

Gabriel seemed to consider this, but evaded the question. "Whereas you, of course, are thrilled at the prospect of sitting in a rocking chair for the next six months."

"I can keep myself busy with books," Sam replied. "Dean... not so much."

"You know, your whining is rather annoying. Yet..." 

A glint showed in Gabriel's eyes and Sam was sure he wasn't going to like what came next. "Yet?"

"I give it back to you, you piss on the flames or whatever. If I'm still stuck in here more than thirty seconds after I've returned the baby to you, I'll take it away again and put it into someone you'll never find. Deal?"

Sam didn't have to think twice. "Deal."

Gabriel snapped his fingers and immediately a wave of nausea rolled over Sam. If anyone would have asked how he could be happy about being on the verge of violent puking, he couldn't have explained it. Feeling weak, he nevertheless succeeded in grabbing the large pitcher of water Bobby had left on the table and extinguishing the fire.

To Sam's surprise, Gabriel snapped his fingers again and the nausea subsided. "What...?"

"It's still there. What, boy, you don't believe my word? You're still pregnant. I just won't have you puking all over the place where we're going."

"What do you mean, where we're going?" Sam had been right: he didn't like it.

"Weeell," the angel drawled, "your promise specifically said your conditions come into play once it's born." He grinned. "Which means that I own your ass for the next six months."

He snapped his fingers again and the shed... disappeared.

* * *

The roar of the Impala filtered through Bobby's dream and he opened his eyes reluctantly to find that the sound was real. Or, had been real, as it had faded by the time he was fully awake. With awakening came realization that Sam shouldn't be leaving the house even though the baby was now in Dean: whoever was trying to find Sam to get access to the child wouldn't know about the swap and thus might still attempt to track him down.

"Balls!"

He got up and found not only Dean but also Sam gone from the house. There was a minor possibility that the brothers had left together, but Sam would have made sure to leave a note. He trudged over to the shed and discovered that Gabriel had vanished, too.

_"Balls!"_

He returned to the house and took a generous swig of bourbon. When he put down the bottle, the Impala's engine could be heard again, this time approaching. As soon as the car came closer, Bobby saw that there was only one person in it whom he recognized as Dean a second later.

Bobby stepped out of the house. He still had a little flicker of hope... "You wouldn't happen to have your brother hiding in the trunk, would you?"

* * *

Ten minutes of pushing Baby to her limit – that was all the time it took for Dean to leave his adrenaline-fueled fight-or-flight mode. Then, the self-accusations and regrets started. After damning Sam for running out on him, he'd done the same thing, rather than stick around and try to find a solution. And, he'd been not just contemplating but dead set on doing away with... and like it or not, he couldn't. The wave of remorse that rolled over him and then sucked him under with a riptide of guilt left him teary-eyed and nauseous. If he didn't already, Sam was going to hate him, fury of a thousand suns-type hate him. They'd probably never have sex again. Hell, even with the resolution he'd made only minutes ago for the same thing, that sounded like hell on Earth. 

Well, not really, but... 

No, he had to go back, face Sam and try to right this mess, this whole mess that just kept getting bigger and bigger. 

Kind of like how Dean was going to get bigger and bigger in the next few months, how the tiny parasite inside him would soon stretch him out like an old sock, or like bread dough forgotten by its baker. The dull ache in his lower back would just get worse and he'd probably not NOT have to pee for the next six months. How was he even going to reach his own dick, by the end? 

The end... well, he'd died before. It always sucked, understatement of the year. But better him than Sam. Or the kid. 

Feeling his mouth fill up with saliva, Dean took his foot off the gas, or rather he would have, if he hadn't already, he found. He braked and pulled over. Fuck these fucking pregnancy hormones! Sweat dampened his shirt under his arms and down his back as he rounded the front of the car and half-slid down into the ditch. 

Any second now. Any second. Dean spat out the mouthful of liquid his over-active salivary glands had produced and waited for the rest... which never came. Huh. Self-assessment took only a second: there was no nausea at all, he'd stopped sweating, back didn't hurt, urge to empty his bladder was gone, all the emotions he'd been pounded with in the car seemed to have leveled off. Thank whomever for that. 

Well, he'd go find Sam, they'd have their talk, and maybe he'd just fail to mention what he'd almost done. Hell, Sam was certainly prone to fits of temper – and passion, Dean had to allow that the flip side of that coin had its benefits – so he'd just chalk it up to one of those. 

The traffic was light, and Dean, driving only ten miles an hour over the speed limit this time, was back to Bobby's in less than twenty minutes. The place seemed quiet. There'd been no customers since they'd arrived. Perhaps Bobby had put up extra warding to deflect people. But beyond that, an air of abandonment hung over the place. Dean didn't like it.

* * *

"What the...?!" Sam looked around and then down his body in disbelief: he was sitting in a rocking chair in a... nursery that was a pink nightmare. So was the gown he was clad in, a rose monstrosity with pleats and frills. Although Gabriel had taken the nausea away earlier, Sam felt like puking.

Gabriel shrugged. "Since you were so keen on being pregnant again, I thought you'd appreciate the effort. But if you don't like it..." 

"Wait...!"

Sam didn't get any further before Gabriel snapped his fingers again.

* * *

"No, Sam's not with me," Dean answered tersely. Bobby smelled like a distillery, and while Dean could hardly hold it against him, he decided not to go into detail about how Sam was hiding or something and Dean had been on a joyride. Or, not-so-joyful ride, as it were. 

Dean hadn't been in the house long before he could sense that something was very, very wrong. "Sam....?" he called. "Sammy!" Nothing. He checked all the ground floor rooms, then the upstairs. No Sam. His brother wouldn't have gone into the basement, he didn't like the place anymore Dean couldn't blame him. Sure, Bobby kept some of the more valuable – and dangerous – books down there, but then Sam would come back upstairs after retrieving them, wouldn't he? Having already lived a year's worth of spiraling emotions in one day, Dean felt panic creeping up on him again. Since he'd come back to hunting, the only times Sam had been away from him for longer than a day were when he was possessed, the nightmare otherwise known as Cold Oak, and when he'd been on demon blood. It was ridiculous, Dean knew that, that two grown men should be as joined at the hip as they were. But dammit, Sam was, well, everything. 

"You think he took off somewhere? Any of your collection of old beaters missing?" Dean asked Bobby on the way down to the cellar. 

* * *

"I haven't checked the cars," Bobby said testily, "but something else is missing. Now please tell me that you're the one who put out the holy fire for some reason I probably don't want to know. Sam isn't in the house and the angel dick is gone. You do the math."

* * *

"What the...?!" Sam had lost count of how many times he'd uttered these very same words over the past, what, hours? Days? He'd obviously also lost count of the number as Gabriel kept materializing him – there was no other word for it – in more and more absurd scenarios. They had in common that they were somehow related to maternity – nurseries, kindergardens, a warehouse full of baby outfits, another with toys, places where pregnant women met to discuss recipes, knitting patterns, the best positions for sex... Another things those places all had in common was that Sam wanted to be as far away from any of them as he could get. 

Gabriel wasn't impressed by his protests so far. "Sugar," the angel crooned, "I want only what's best for you and our child."

_Our_ child! Sam saw red. "This isn't _our_ child! It's mine and Dean's. And what's best for it and me is that we're with him, so return us immediately!" It wasn't the first time he'd demanded, pleaded, reasoned – tried to reason – with the angel, and just like before Sam didn't receive the response he still hadn't given up on hoping for.

"Dean and Bobby told me that you'd have an abortion," Gabriel replied in a bored and patient tone of voice. "You know what, I may even listen to your wishes if you stop whining, but with Dean at Bobby's is the one place you're not going."

* * *

Now Gabriel was gone? What the-? "News to me, and no, it wasn't me who let him out. What the hell?!" Dean fumed. Bobby didn't know about the pregnancy switch-ups, which Dean wasn't so sure about anymore either. His blood pressure elevated a few more points as he digested the news that Sam wasn't in the house. Apparently, he wasn't in the shed – hello, missing angel – or anywhere outside that Bobby might have seen him. Of course, it was night now but there was still an outside light on each building and the yard light between the house and the shop. 

If anything happened to Sam, Dean would never forgive himself. He should have stayed, regardless of Sam's behavior. Pregnant or newly not pregnant, his emotions and hormones were a mess. Thirty minutes of that had been more than enough for Dean, whose gut was telling him Sam was probably long gone. 

"We have to assume they're both gone," he stated, and made a sweeping motion with one arm to encompass 'outside'. "I have to find Sam. Not even gonna bother running around out there, calling his name. Guess I'll try his phone GPS first." As he headed upstairs to grab Sam's laptop, he called back to Bobby, "If you have a better idea, I'm listening." 

They could attempt a summoning or magical locating too, but Dean wanted to try the easier way first. He took the laptop downstairs to the study/living room, opened it, accessed Bobby's network and then the website for Sam's phone service. They'd worked out a system of passwords years ago and he got it on the second try. Not surprised that the GPS was turned off, Dean was able to restore it online without even having to talk to customer service, which was good because he was in no mood to deal with some condescending IT flunkie. 

However, he didn't get a result. "No luck," he told Bobby, whose expression told him he'd already figured that out for himself. "Either Sam's somewhere too remote to pick up a signal, he's being cloaked – as in stealth, or who knows... you got a likely mirror? I'm gonna try scrying him." 

* * *

"You're doing no such thing," Bobby said. "Have you forgotten what happened to Pamela back in the day? What if that kid in Sam is an angel and has the same effect on anyone attempting to pin him down? And I'm not even talking about Gabriel."

If looks could kill, he'd have dropped dead on the spot under Dean's stare. "Let's think this through first and resort to desperate means only after we've ruled out any alternative."

* * *

_No such thing?_ Who did Bobby think he was: someone's half-drunk, middle-aged, bearded male nanny? Dean sneered, "Oh, please. Pamela was nothing to Castiel, no offense. Even if you happen to be right and that angel impregnated Sam, which never even occurred to either of us till today by the way, it's my kid too and it's not going to retaliate like that." He looked around, but saw no mirrors in plain view. A smaller one rather than a large wall-hanging mirror would be easier to control. The thought of them peering into a crystal ball was borderline. Surely Bobby had something usable, even if he wasn't inclined to to divulge it. 

Naturally, his theory about what the kid would or wouldn't do if Dean tried to find his brother by magical means was full of holes already and Dean had no way of knowing the truth of the baby's nature or genetics; he was running on instinct. To date, other than to make Sam a walking puke machine, there hadn't been any signs of unnatural – save for male pregnancy – or malicious intent. What if it really was some half-angel? A half-demon was an antichrist; the angel parallel could not be good. "Sure was a lot simpler when it was just me knocking up my brother," he muttered.

"So how else are we gonna find him?" Dean asked Bobby, sure it was a rhetorical question in that context. Knowing that Sam was missing seemed to open up a deep void in Dean, as if he was split in two and half was gone to where ever Sam was right now. "We can't just stand around with our thumbs up our asses and hope Gabriel brings 'im back. We gotta find him!"

* * *

"Of course we ain't just gonna stand around with thumbs up our asses," Bobby replied, "and I needn't tell you that hoping Gabriel will bring him back is a waste of time. But going off half-cocked won't help us either, except that it'll help us get into trouble."

He paused. "We need to know more. Working on the hypothesis that this feathered dick wants Sam and the babe alive, time is on our side. Sam still has months to go. If the process could be sped up. Gabriel would have done it already. I've barely had time to look into books, and I don't intend to act – or let you act – before that's happened." He glared at Dean. "I suggest you work on your patience. The kid might just appreciate his parents being alive instead of being toasted by the guy who'll adopt him for whatever reason once you two are gone." Bobby sighed.

"And since you mentioned it, how sure are you that it is your kid? It wouldn't be the first time angels attempted to breed with humans and we know what happened to the Nephilim, unless you're not watching X-Files," he added grimly.

* * *

Dean stood there and took it, although he'd swear steam was coming out of his ears in annoyance. Bobby hit the main points again: patience, the unpredictable nature of angels, Sam and Dean staying alive, the baby being adopted by... well, they already knew that certain children were hustled out to the desert base Castiel said he had been posted at for millennia, to be cared for and trained. The idea of their child being spirited away to be a guinea pig for those winged dicks grated on Dean more than the impossible alternative of him and Sam trying to raise the kid themselves. They'd need to find somewhere better, and fast. 

But that was assuming he could get Sam back, not likely with Bobby's ban on the more arcane types of long-distance spying. Eventually, Dean heaved a huge, put-upon sigh. "Fine, fine, no scrying," he groused, capitulating, at least till the next time Bobby wasn't around to catch him. "And yeah, I'm up on my pop culture, thanks. Nephilim, right. Those Hollywood schmucks didn't even know angels are junkless." 

"Which I'm not," he went on a little too gleefully. Tit for tat, so to speak, since Bobby expected him to keep his nose buried in books for the next god knew how long. "We told you... Sam was a girl, and that's how it happened. I'm not gonna let anything..." But then Dean trailed off. How could he do anything, really? He'd taken Sam to the safest place they knew of, only to have his brother disappear only hours later. How had he let that happen? What if Sam never returned? As far as Dean was concerned, it was a fate worse than death, and he should know. "I suppose we'd better get on with it. Point me to the..." he swallowed hard, "books." 

* * *

"Open your eyes, honey."

Sam was tempted to refuse: wherever Gabriel had brought him this time would be no better than the previous places, but his natural curiosity won in the end. Once his eyes were open, he saw to his surprise that they were alone. For once, there were no expecting mothers nor babies that looked as if they'd been scouted by some advertisement company. Instead of being surrounded by pink, he found himself in a large, bright room with a – single! – large bed. A window displayed a mountain scenery. It was quiet, suggesting that this place was somewhere remote.

To his utter surprise, Sam thought that this could actually work. He needed a place to rest and lick his wounds, and if anyone could protect him and the baby from evil forces – assuming, of course, that Gabriel would keep his word, but right now Sam was in his hands in any event – it was the angel. Only...

"Okay," he said. "I may agree to stay here, but there's a condition."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Of course," he said in that bored tone of voice that Sam was getting used to by now.

"I want to talk with Dean. He needs to know that I'm... that _we're_ safe."

Snapping his fingers, the angel pulled a cell phone out of seemingly nowhere. "What," he said when Sam opened his mouth to protest. "You don't expect me to return you to that old what's-his-name's place? After what you did to me there? No, you can text your brother. Or not. Your choice."

For a moment, Sam wondered if he should refuse, but he knew as well as Gabriel did that he was powerless. In the end, he decided to take what was offered before it was withdrawn.

_Dean, I'm safe and so is the child. I'll be in touch. Take care._ He hesitated, then added, _I love you_ and hit send.

"How touching," Gabriel sneered.

Seconds later, the phone pinged, signaling an incoming message.

_Tell that winged dick that he's dead. You too._

What the-? Before Sam could even get puzzled, a second message arrived.

_Take care, I mean, not that you're dead. And, uh, the other thing. You know._

Sam blushed when he read the words, aware how much it must have cost Dean to type them. He was so immersed in the warm feeling that spread through him that for the moment nothing else mattered.

He and the baby were safe and Dean loved him.

Everything else would fall into place.


End file.
